


Just the Sun in Your Eyes

by orphan_account



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auguste Lives, Ill update tags as i go, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, and a dork, angsty teen!laurent yay!, as per usual, auguste is a bro, auguste is compared to the sun A LOT, chess as a metaphor for relationships, damen is softer than his first impressions, i wanted to try so bear with me, laurent is a fucking nerd omg, some shady shit from the regent, there will be other things, will edit rating later bc everything gets worse, yeah i know its been done a million times before but
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 16:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is it. This is the part in the epics, in the sweetly sung stories that ring through the halls of Ios on warm evenings, where the hero proclaims his strength mightily, composes long stanzas of poetic fervor for his country, his love, whatever his cause is. Damen just breathes hard, the hot breaths sucked in noisily through his helmet slats, angles himself into a fighting stance, and nods at the man across from him. There is a sun on Auguste’s chest. There is a sun inside Damen’s, scorching and charring his ribcage. Auguste nods back. A fair match between two honorable men who both know what it will mean to lose.
or
yet another Auguste!lives au fic





	1. Marlas

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Guys! I've had the idea for this fic floating around in my head forever, and have been slowly piecing together this first chapter for a while. I know the premise is fairly common, but I hope to take it in new directions. If anyone is interested in beta-ing and keeping me honest about updating in reasonable time, hmu

The world is red around Damen.

Vere’s advantage has always been their forts, in Damen’s father’s reluctance to lay siege. All of that is abandoned now. This was war as it was meant to be fought. No deception and trickery, no cutting off of supply lines to starve the other out. Two lands, two groups of men fighting for their lands, two sides pulsing and lunging and surging against the other under the bereavement of the sun, the air wretched and tangy.

Auguste, in his golden armor, delicately carved and adorned, is quite a sight to behold. He is shining and proud, and the metal plating helps hide the tired slump of shoulders. Damen’s own does the same for him.

They are here, apart by only a few paces, and there is a berth around them where no other man stands. They are alone, despite the positive ocean of war being wrought around them, tsunamis of men in red uniform against those of men in blue, covered in red.

This is it. This is the part in the epics, in the sweetly sung stories that ring through the halls of Ios on warm evenings, where the hero proclaims his strength mightily, composes long stanzas of poetic fervor for his country, his love, whatever his cause is. Damen just breathes hard, the hot breaths sucked in noisily through his helmet slats, angles himself into a fighting stance, and nods at the man across from him. There is a sun on Auguste’s chest. There is a sun inside Damen’s, scorching and charring his ribcage. Auguste nods back. A fair match between two honorable men who both know what it will mean to lose.

There is a silence hanging between them, but it is far from quiet. Damen breathes. Stomping feet. The clash of metal. Damen breathes. The shrieks of horse. The cries of men. Damen breathes.

The world must stop for a moment, time must freeze, because suddenly there is the flash of swords and the shift of muscle as the crown princes of Vere and Akielos meet in the center of their orbit, and nothing else exists. _Clang_. Damen breathes.

~0~

There is a sword swinging down towards his head, and then it stops. The tip presses to Auguste’s throat, lays its deadly edge against the delicate skin beneath his Adam’s apple, light and soft as the fingertips of a lover, its arc towards him halting abruptly. The sun blazes above, blinding him to the hulking form above him, but Damianos is there. Auguste is dizzy. The world is spinning and whirling and bucking beneath him, and his body is screaming both with pain and bruises and the need to _move, move leave, get out, danger, death, leave._

But the blade is not breaking his skin, it is not cutting his air off. It is being carefully, precisely held just above him.

“Auguste of Vere." Damianos of Akielos. Nineteen years old, but with authority resting more naturally in his voice than men Auguste knew of twice his years.  “You will call off your men.”

His pronunciation is terrible, is all that runs through Auguste’s head.

“ _Auguste!”_ A cry, shrill and terrified and echoing from above his head, the direction of the Veretian camp.

_No gods no, don’t let this be happening_.

“ _Auguste, no!”_

He has to get up, has to draw Damianos’ attention. The sword pushes further down, at the verge of drawing blood. Auguste has to get between the other man and his brother, could bear the metal piercing deeper if it meant that Damianos didn’t go near Laurent

Damianos quietly makes a sound with a jerk of his head. Was it a name? An order? All of his learning of Akielon language is failing him.

_Fight,_ his body screams. It sounds peculiarly like his father. _You cannot surrender. Don’t let him-_

A man who had at some point come up behind them during the fight begins to move. He stalks past them, where the cries are getting louder. Laurent is getting closer and Auguste squeezes his eyes shut, slams his head back down to the rocky ground, and wills the tenseness of his limbs to loosen. The submission of it is a knife in his stomach.

“Please,” He breathes. “Please, no.”

“Quiet.” The word is sharp on the other prince’s tongue.

“Please, he’s just a boy, he hasn’t even been in the fight.”

_Begging._

Auguste’s uncle’s face flashes in his head, lips twisted and teeth bared, disgusted. His father’s, lips pressed and eyes soft, disappointed. His father’s face, bloody.

His father is already dead. He cannot matter right now.

He hears Laurent, though. Laurent is alive. Laurent is there and safe and all he has for now. Laurent is alive, and Auguste will not allow that to change, no matter the cost to him or his dignity.

He can’t lose Laurent, too.

“He has no part in this, there is no reason for you to- Just- Please. Kill me, I don’t care, just leave him out of this. I beg of you, I throw myself on your mercy, Prince of Akielos, ple-”

“Quiet.” His eye are not on Auguste, even now focused on some point beyond him.

“ _Please_.”

“Your brother will remain unharmed, King of Vere.”

The honorific lands on his chest like bricks. King of Vere.

Damianos finally breaks his gaze from the land above Auguste’s head. Auguste cannot see the man Damianos had spoken to earlier, and he no longer hears his brother. His stomach turns.

There is a stillness to the land around them that had before only existed in his head. There are still the sounds of battle, far away, but a not insignificant amount of men must have stopped at the sight of their leaders in such a position.

Auguste feels the sword press almost absent-mindedly, like the prince of Akielos is considering something heavily, and the answer lay in the twist of his hand and the edge of his blade. He stands there breathing, and Auguste lays there breathing. He cannot hear Laurent.

He could kick out his legs, grab for a stone and try to throw it. He could knock the sword away by its flat and roll away before resuming to fight. He could try. Everything that desperately dances through his mind ends with his blood on the ground and his brother no better off for it.

They wait in silence. He cannot hear Laurent.

“Call off your men.” Damianos’ voice is sudden and hoarse.

Auguste can think of a dozen reasons to never allow your opponent to hear you speak in such a soft tone, and two dozen more reasons to do exactly that. Auguste, at this point, is not an opponent. He is powerless.

“Is my brother safe.”

“I am a man of my word. Call off your men.”

Auguste closes his eyes against the sun again, the bright burn of it overhead mocking.

“You have bested me, Akielon brother.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. His father would never have done this. His father would not have given in, would rather have a sword through his throat. His father is dead and cannot help Laurent. Auguste can.  “I will do as you ask.”

The sword does not move from its resting place for a good few minutes, but when it does, it is a solid heft and a steady swipe back to its owner’s side. Rocks dig into Auguste’s palms as he hoists himself from the ground.  He is standing across from the young prince for the second time that day. The sky does not feel as blue as before. His hands are red and shoot with pain. Their eyes lock, wary, but neither moves.

“Retreat.” Auguste calls to those that have gathered nearby. “Regroup at camp and hold until ordered otherwise. Under no circumstances should you reengage. Pass the order to the others.”

There is an uneasy moment where no one moves.

“Go _._ ” He cannot look at his men.

He finally hears footsteps echoing sharply off the stone. Damianos turns partially to his men to say something in his own language, harsh sounds in the back of the throat and hissing air, and some of them ride off towards the few lines still skirmishing. Auguste waits as the prince turns back to him.

“There is much for us to discuss.”


	2. A Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years have passed since Marlas and Vere's surrender. With the sparing of Auguste and Laurent, Akielos was able to set up a tentative cease-fire with the Veretians, but it is only now--after years of ambassadors and diplomats--that their relations are stable enough for heir-apparent of Akielos, Damianos, to travel to Vere and officially make a treaty and statement of peace. Before any business gets underway, however, the endless formalities that come with royal life must be observed, and Damen might need to make further peace with other members of the Veretian royal family before their countries can do anything. Nobody said peace was an easy thing.

There were days when he and Kastor were boys, they would escape from their daily lessons and go scale the cliffs that surround Ios. There were enough decent-sized purchases to scramble around on like goats, and the burn of muscles as they threw themselves from ledge to ledge sent Damen’s heart racing. Their chests heaved and hair fell sweaty into their faces, and the bottom shelves were a steady place to rest. Waves thundered against the rocks, the sound echoing through his ribcage, droplets spraying until they were covered in enough water to make the rocks slippery and horseplay a dangerous impossibility. This only sometimes stopped Kastor from pushing at Damen’s shoulders and swiping at his feet as they laughed. They would amble back to the palace with white, salt-crusted hair and hands stinging, rubbed red and blistering: Damen’s lips fought the twitch of a smirk as their father scolded them. The king himself always had a curious sparkle in his eyes as his voice filled the room, like the reflection of sunlight off of the waters they knew so well. Their apologies and promises echoed into the hollow chambers of Ios, and would do so again in the weeks after that, again and again.

Damen loved the feeling of rock beneath his fingertips, coarse and strong. He loved the wind singing off the cliffs and how it pulled at his clothes like wings, inviting him to jump and let it catch him. Damen loved the heat of the sun beating down in summer, and it stretching out on his skin. But Kastor loved the sea above it all, and Damen loved the light his brother’s eyes sparked with whenever they reached it the most. They kept coming back.

~0~

Damen looks up as a strong gust catches his sail and men around him move to their tasks with idle chatter in the air. His eyes wander over each one, reciting their names and that of their families in his head, before studying their handiwork and recalling the names for the movements. They come in the croaky voice of Prokopios, the bony old man that had watched over his crooked nose as Kastor and he learned the ways of seafaring, tongue ready to cluck or  _ tsk _ at a moment’s notice if one of them were to misstep.

“No matter how calm it seems, the water is not a friend.” He would tell them, in the sort of mindful way that meant he had said it many times before. “The familiarity you think you feel? Foolishness. Arrogance.” The statement punctuated with a sharp spit over the railings. “The oceans have been here for eons before us. You can spend your life on its back and still be a stranger that it will treat with hostility. Any land you are trying to get to by ship isn’t likely to treat you any better. Guards up boys, guards up.”

Damen sighs, eyes fixed on the horizon that will soon show Vere, and can practically feel old Proko sneering at the thought of what he is doing now. He never like Prokopios much anyways.

“Exalted.” Nikandros is by his side, stiff. Damen continues to look at the skyline. “The captain speaks of good winds. We are likely to be ahead of schedule, and so have sent one of the smaller ships ahead to inform the Veretian court.”

“Thank you.”

The wind is blowing through Damen’s hair, longer than he normally favors. He considers asking his friend to fix this before he presents himself to Veretian nobles. His mind flashes with images of pale men and women whispering,  _ savage _ , either way, and he trusts Nikandros much more with his blade on the battlefield than anywhere near his head. The idea is discounted for now. Nikandros shows no sign of relenting his board-straight posture, and Damen jabs him in the side.

“Relax, friend.”

“ _ Relax. _ ” The soldier mocks back. Damen laughs.

“Insubordination towards your prince, Nikandros?”

“Prince? And here I thought I heard you call me ‘friend.’”

“Ah, even we are susceptible to lapses in judgement.”

“Of that I am well aware.” Nikandros looks pointedly around at the ship, finishing with a glance towards the horizon that had had Damen so fixated. Damen sighs.

“I will not discuss this with you again, my friend.” His hands tighten on the railing, some of the tension that has hung between them the past months creeping back in like a fog. “Besides, it is far too late to be rethinking our judgements.”

“Boats may turn around and return to their homes as the please.”

“But people with duties to their countries may not.”

“It is my job,” Nikandros grits out. “To think of the well being of my country.”

“As is mine.”

“ _ But _ , as a friend, I feel compelled to counsel you-”

“As you have repeatedly on this matter already, Nikandros.”

Nikandros is a smart man, and he knows his friend well. He stays silent, gives a short bow and leaves Damen at his railing. Damen’s stomach clenches painfully, but it has been doing so since he could no longer see his father seeing his ships off, so he does not waste energy fretting about it.

When he was younger, Damen reveled in the fact that Ios was made to echo imposingly. He could hear everything from the gossip of the servants, to business of visiting diplomats, to the insincere promises of Kastor and himself when they were in trouble. Ios was an amplifier of important words--an enemy to secrets--and now that he was on his own, everything is blending together.

_ Come back to me, Damianos. _

But these words won’t leave him. They linger around like a blessing or a bad smell, and he cannot tell the difference but the emptiness of his father’s face as he said them will not leave him either way.

Nikandros thinks Damen does not understand the magnitude of what he is doing here, does not realize the extent of the danger he will be placing himself in by playing the ambassador on the kinfe’s tip. Nikandros does not know that if it were up to Damen’s desires himself, this ship would never have left harbor. He was not there when Theomedes had placed a still-powerful hand on the back of Damen’s neck after all the pomp and circumstance before departure, pulled their foreheads to rest against each other and had told him to come back.

When he was younger, Damen thought his father infallible as most children do of their parents. Damen had had the benefit of the many years to be thoroughly disavowed of the notion, and was well familiar with the look he had worn. Great general king Theomedes was tired. Tired and grieving for the loss of a son who hadn’t left yet.

“Come back to me, Damianos.” He had said in the inarguable way of kings, despite his obvious fatigue--a plea hidden beneath command. Damen could do nothing but press his lips together and bow to his father before boarding ship. Damen will not fail him in so simple an order, and yet he knows better than anyone the difficulty of maintaining peace in a foreign land.

_ Come back to me. _

__ “I will,” Damianos murmurs to the sea, and waits to see the outline of Vere appear against the sun.

~0~

“You nearly killed him.” Nikandros reminds Damen as the  _ Golden Galatea _ pulls into port.

“I was there.” Damen reminds him back. “It was battle. And it has been a long time”

“You think he has forgiven you?” Nikandros means well. The seasoned soldier rocks on his toes and his fingers twitch towards a sword that is not on his belt. He will be returning to Ios soon, with the majority of the men who came here, leaving only a small delegation with Damen

“I think he is understanding. Or so he seemed in the letters.”

“Oh, yes the letters.” The bitterness of old disputes.

“Auguste is well respected as king and has given no indication that he bears us ill will. Both of our countries have fared better for the cease.”

“And the younger one?” Nikandros surveys the blue flags that fly everywhere with disdain.

Damen grimaces. They do not speak for the rest of their arrival.

~0~

Auguste is a blinding person. Damen gets the impression of a midday sun greeting them at the front of a procession of armed men, the potential threat of which is tempered only by the Veretian king’s sheer force of personality.

_ You nearly killed him _ , Nikandros’ words pop into his mind as he moves towards Auguste, and not for the first time, Damen thinks,  _ It would truly have been a shame if I had. _

“Damianos of Akielos,” Auguste’s wide smile pulls at his cheeks in an attractive way, and they clasp forearms with conviction, “I humbly welcome you to Vere and extend my gratitude for your presence here.”

“Auguste of Vere,” Damen does not know when he started grinning back like a child, but it does not feel exceptionally wrong at the moment, “I humbly accept your welcome and extend my gratitude for your hospitality.”

“It is received gladly.” They are still grasping arms, and it is such an odd picture they make, that Damen is nearly compelled to burst out laughing. The guards behind Auguste and the townspeople watching cautiously from storefront with undisguised interest are not laughing.

~0~

“And here we are at the gardens.” This is the first actual location Auguste has pointed out since nearly the beginning of the tour Damen is being given of the castle grounds. Though too dignified to call it rambling, Auguste had kept up a steady stream of information as they walked through the vaulted corridors of the palace. Damen is certain the minute he is left alone he will get lost in the labyrinthian halls, but there is a certain comfort in the openness of Auguste. Along their walk, he would suddenly grasp a line of thought; as they passed the kitchen, and start talking about the season’s harvests and Vere’s main exports. They are almost all facts Damen is already familiar with from his study of Vere’s culture, but the sentiment stands.

“Your grounds are wonderful.”

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to pass that along to our keeper.” There seems to be nothing that Auguste is not happy to talk about, nothing that he is not able to find some interest or passion for. “It’s a shame you did not arrive before our summer season. They’re quite a sight in in the spring.”

Damen thinks of rocky cliffs of Ios, and the relative dearth of decorative plant life, but the summer palace has incredible sights once winter has passed that might be comparable. There is a sharp tug in his gut at the thought of home and his father there alone.

He finds himself nearly asking if they have any training facilities he could use over the course of his stay, but thinks better of it as he remembers blond hair against the worn ground and his sword at a throat. Perhaps he can wait and find it himself at a later point.

Damen must have an odd look on his face because Auguste is observing him quietly, eyes flashing. The smile on his lips is still friendly but Damen gets the distinct impression that the other man is cataloguing every breath and facial muscle that he undoubtedly has scrunched together.

Damen’s memory flashes up those blue eyes staring intensely from behind the plating of a helmet, scoping the battlefield from horsetop to charge the next moment and crumple Damen’s defense. Between his open nature and kind disposition, Damen is only now connecting this man with the one who organized troops that nearly broke Akielon formations, with the one who had sent a sword through his shoulder in their short time pitted against one another. Damen doesn’t think it is Auguste being intentionally multiplicitous, but everything about the king’s mannerisms to this point has made Damen forget just how dangerous he could be. He is not sure whether he should feel admiration or fear, but thinks there is a touch of both now swimming in his chest. It is probably better that way.

And then the metallic glare from Auguste’s eyes is gone as he seems to find what he’s been looking for. They have been standing in the gardens for several minutes now, quieter and more serious than the roses at Damen’s back should allow. Auguste’s face settles into something Damen doesn’t recognize, but it isn’t hostile, so he just offers a kind smile.

“There’s plenty left to show you,” Auguste says. There is something missing from his voice now, Damen thinks, but not of a bad variety. Like there had been a cautionary knife’s edge hidden by the silk of Auguste’s words earlier that Damen had not noticed until it vanished. Or perhaps was just hidden deeper. “And you should be formally introduced to the rest of the family before you present to the court.”

Damen remembers slight shoulders that locks of golden hair fell to, skinny arms covered with expensive fabric and armor that didn’t fit quite right. A young boy, restrained minimally, snarling out dangerous promises the minute Damen had stepped into the tent, before hunching in on himself and going silent.

Damen does not say anything to Auguste, but nods politely and allows the other man to lead the way.

~0~

Damen’s shoulders had felt weighted at the thought of once again meeting the younger Veretian prince, but had nearly forgotten about their uncle. Being lead into the room where both of them stand, it’s difficult for Damen to know where his eyes should be looking--they are a study in contrasts.

They are both fair skinned and both sets of blue eyes lock disconcertingly on him once he comes into view but that is where the similarities end. Their uncle is all shoulders, hair and beard both trimmed precisely, thick and dark brown. Laurent has only stretched over the past several years: taller, thinner, and only the slightest trace of childhood shows in a face that is settling prettily into sharp, well-proportioned parts.

“Uncle, brother,” If Auguste is the sun, then Laurent is the cooler silver echo of moonlight and their uncle is the pervasive night sky. “I present to you Damianos of Akielos. Damianos, my younger brother Laurent, and our uncle Aldéric.”

Aldéric is genial enough as they bow to each other. Laurent does not break eye contact until Damen does so first. He is reminded of a fable told to him as a child about a snake in the bushes that ends with ‘poison is sometimes wrapped up in pretty packages.’ It was not a comforting bedtime story, nor is it a comforting thought now.

“Esteemed uncle and brother, I give my deepest gratitudes for your hospitality.” The words always feel clunky and scripted coming out of his mouth--he holds no love for decorum of the useless variety--but never more so than now.

“The honor is truly ours, Prince of Akielos.” Aldéric smiles. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance once again.”

Damen had met Auguste and Laurent at Marlas, but had not interacted with their uncle at all. He does not point this out.

~0~

“Would you like to see our training grounds?”

Damen startles. He is uneasy after his introduction to the royal family, off balance. Whether it had been Laurents unwavering gaze or Aldéric’s unchanging demeanor, some chord did not strike quite true.

Auguste is looking at him pleasant, expectant, if a bit nervous. And for good reason. Marlas sits between them like a siege wall. Is this an olive branch of sorts?

“Yes.” He says.

“Would you mind Laurent coming with us?” Auguste nods his head in the vague direction of somewhere behind Damen. He turns to see the younger boy trying fruitlessly to act nonchalant behind a pillar. It is somehow endearingly naive and so at odds with the way Laurent had projected himself in the room that Damen can barely reconcile them. That, at least, seems to be consistent. The Veretian royal family are an exercise in multitudes. But at the end of the day, Laurent is still a child. Laurent is still a child who, the last time they were together, had been used as collateral in negotiations due to the previous broken parlay. His reservations about Damen make sense.

“Not at all.”

Laurent, for as hard as he is trying to act like he has no interest in them, scowls.

“Laurent.” Auguste might be calling to him, or scolding him, Damen cannot tell, but he jerks his head again--this time in the opposite direction--and starts walking off towards, presumably, the training fields. Damen sets off behind Auguste, footsteps echoing around, and, by the sound of it, Laurent is following as well.

“This works well,” Auguste says brightly. “You, Damianos, owe me a rematch.”

The thought of another duel with Auguste sends a myriad of thoughts and emotions spiralling through his head, but Damen has been on a boat for the last few weeks, and his muscles sing at even the idea of swing a sword again. And perhaps this will lay to rest the last inhibitions caused by Marlas. A circular sort of closure that will allow them to forget the intentions they’d had as they circled each other for the first time years ago.

Damen chances a look, and Laurent’s eyebrows are knitted together defiantly as he levels a glare against his brother’s back.

Damen smiles at Auguste. Perhaps it will even be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sorry that this chapter took forever, and it's not even very long... I'll be honest and say that when I outlined this story over the summer, I never expected myself to actually continue with it as I have never done a long, multi-chapter story before, so this is all kind of off-the-cuff and for fun. This chapter in itself is essentially my first draft because I hate editing, but will likely be refined later because I'll come back and hate it :P  
> I have no set schedule under which chapters for this will come out, but don't expect it to be too often because school is not my friend at the moment. I'll try to make it not ridiculous.  
> Also, a note: I have not read the books in a while, and while I'm tempted to go back and read them to get a better idea of what Veretian court life should look like, I don't have time with my classes and so I'm going off of memory and will probably stray from canon descriptions of cultural stuff. I will DEFINITELY stray from canon plot, holy crap I hope you're ready for everything to fall apart.
> 
> Next Chapter:  
> basically fluffy fun times 80's music montage of everyone becoming something resembling friends, starting with the duel, + the beginning of the actual plot bc I suck at pacing!
> 
> please feel free to give me any feedback!!


	3. Whiplash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent comes to terms with several things, in fits and starts. Longest chapter yet yay!!!!

“Laurent?” Comes Auguste’s voice, echoing from behind his chair, somewhere in the vicinity of the door. He almost turns around out of sheer habit, but no. Laurent’s fists clench. He does not move his eyes from the--admittedly, rather dry--book in his hands, and certainly does not meet the disappointed gaze of his older brother. There is a sigh, heavy and tired, and it settles into his stomach like a slab of marble. It is a sigh like one his father would make, and that would make Laurent want to cringe, to beg forgiveness for causing his brother to fret, but there has already been an icy knife sitting in his chest for weeks, seeming to twist with every passing day until they’ve reached now, reached here, where Laurent feels like his sternum has been ripped apart. “Laurent, please.”

“Please, what?” He places a strip of silk between the pages of his book, marking his place.

“Damianos will be here within days.”

Laurent is painfully aware of this. He stares at the cover of his closed book. It is on the history of agriculture in Patras. He cannot bring himself to care.

Neither of them speaks for a good few minutes, Laurent keeping his eyes determinedly in his lap so as to not look at the surely apologetic look on Auguste's face and have all of his anger melt away against his will.

“I know how you feel about all of this,” Auguste finally breaks the silence. “And not for no reason, but-”

“But we are very fortunate for the political position that secured peace with Akielos would give us,” Laurent recites, just barely keeping the bite from his voice. “And it is our duty to our people to help create circumstances under which they will be the most prosperous.”

Auguste huffs a quiet laugh, which means he is failing miserably to hide how amused he is, and Laurent’s mouth twitches upwards at the sound. He can’t resist anymore and turns to face his brother, who is leaning against one of the shelves nearby. He has a smile curling up his cheeks, showing off the dimple that only appears on one side, and his eyes are lit up in that way that means Laurent has just done something endearing, like a dog chasing its tail. It makes Laurent want to duck his head away and scowl at the same time, but he narrows his eyes mockingly with a smile of his own instead.

“This isn’t going to be easy.” Auguste could either be talking about the upcoming treaty and all of its factors or the fact that they will be hosting the man who had been one of their biggest political rivals until a handful of years ago.

“I hadn’t guessed.” Laurent knows he’s being childish, but his brother is one of the few people around whom he can be as such. “I thought the intricacies of creating civility between two long-standing rival nations would be simple. Not to mention the ease with which you’ll be making friends with the man who tried to kill you.”

“You’re not simple, Laurent.” Auguste says. “I would have been in the same position had the fight gone another way, and I cannot say whether or not I would have been as merciful.”

That’s a thought Laurent has turned over in his head a few or so times.

He pictures the fields of Marlas, only instead of the dark figure of Damianos above Auguste, it is his brother who has taken the upper hand. Perhaps the Akielon prince’s shoulder had given out after Auguste wounded it, perhaps the ground was the slightest bit uneven and he had stumbled just long enough to take advantage of. No matter how they had gotten there, the air goes almost silent. Hundreds of men stop to watch as a blade is levelled to a throat. Laurent doesn’t know what Auguste will do, but this is war. This is his country and it has been encroached on by these men. It is war, and the ground turns red and then dark brown. Laurent briefly spares a thought for Akielos, left with an old king and no heirs. It is not an enviable position, but he doesn’t really care to think about that when his brother is turning back to face him, alive and safe. There is yelling coming from the Akielon camp--no, not yelling, screaming. Anguish and despair and calls to retreat. Laurent thinks of his father on the ground, an Akielon arrow in a chink in his armor, and cannot bring himself to care for their grief.

Laurent brings himself back to the library and his brother. There isn’t much use in imagining something that can’t be changed. Auguste is here and he is alive and that is everything important about that day rolled up into one fact. His heart still clenches at the thought of Auguste beneath Damianos. Laurent doesn’t know what caused the man to change his mind, but he knows he will always be grateful.

“I’m not required to like him.” Laurent says.

“No.” Auguste concedes. “That, you are not.”

~0~

Laurent trods behind the two older men as they make their way towards the training fields, eyes glued to the broad, dark back of the Akielon royal. He is taller than Auguste still, having grown even taller since Marlas, and certainly heavier as well. The prince had been well built and muscled even those few years ago, but it seemed like everything about the man had been amplified to an unbearable degree--like sun glaring off the ocean. He watches as Damianos says something light and jovial that leads Auguste to elbow him in the side with a grin. The corridor is open and there is a cool breeze blowing across his skin but suddenly Laurent feels like his throat is closing, like his chest is tight and his stomach is getting ready to heave. Damianos throws his head back to laugh--a full-gutted, unfettered sound--and Laurent’s eyes blur. His feet are moving behind them, but when Damianos pushes back at his brother, all Laurent can see is the swords they will soon be swinging at each other and hear the sounds of a battle long finished. His hands tingle and his mouth feels dry. Damianos’ sword locks at the base of Auguste’s and he kicks him to the ground. Laurent can hear the echoing of a metal helmet against stone from all the way back at the edge of camp and he starts to run.

Only he isn’t running. He isn’t moving at all. His feet feel like lead and his head feels like it's been bashed against a wall and he is standing still in the doorway watching Damianos test practice swords in his hand, swinging them in wide dangerous circles as Auguste goes to get the one that he favors.

Laurent knows how to fight. His hands have been rubbed raw countless times from leather hilts, and by now he could easily beat half the men assigned to guard him at any given point. He knows how to fight, and he’s very, very good. The image of Damianos with his sword at Auguste’s throat, glinting savagely, was burnt into Laurent’s eyelids and it was the reason he had pushed himself so hard at the art. Laurent knows how to fight.

This is another monster altogether. Damianos might have well sliced his way out of his mother’s womb with the weapon already molded to his hands, because here he stood with a weapon he is unused to, stabbing the air in front of him with a grin, his shoulders loosened in a way they simply hadn’t before, and Laurent feels like there is no air for his lungs to take in. Laurent knows how to fight, and yet if you asked him at this moment to hold a sword, his traitorous arms would give out beneath the weight. His mind clears of any strategy that might give him an edge, and voids itself of any technique that he has sewn into his mind over the past years in preparation of a moment just like this. If Laurent were to fight, he’d die. He might already be there because he can’t feel his hands and his ears are ringing and his throat won’t allow him to desperately gasp at the air around him.

Auguste and Damianos circle each other and light glints sinisterly off of armor that isn’t there and Laurent can hear the far off cries of men who aren’t dying around them and he barely has enough control of his feet to stumble around the corner and into a alcove before the world spins to a halt and his vision goes dark. The last thing he hears is the clash of swords from the training field, and then Laurent’s world is black.

~0~

Laurent comes to with his cheek pressed to cold stone and sweat dripping down his forehead. He hears wind and swords and he is safe, he can breathe. He hears swords. Damianos and Auguste. They are fine, Auguste won’t get hurt, it’s sparring and he is safe. The cold stones feel nice against Laurents skin but he pushes himself to his feet unsteadily. He breathes. His shirt’s tied tightly and is sticking to his skin in a distinctly unpleasant way. He is safe, he breathes. The air is cool and the wind is soft. He is climbing the stairs that lead to seats that overlook the arena. He can hear the labored breathes of the sparring men below. Laurent tries to act like he is sitting down rather than falling.

There is a thud of metal on dirt and Auguste is leveling a sword at Damianos’ throat.

Laurent breathes in, and for the first time since Marlas, it fills his chest completely.

No one moves and Laurent can practically feel the air vibrating with thoughts running through their heads. It is an unending whisper of _what if things had been different_ _what if it had ended like this what if we weren’t where we are now._

Damianos laughs that unfettered laugh again, head back and throat further exposed to the sword Auguste is only now lowering, his shoulders shaking as well.

“If nothing else,” Damianos wheezes between huffs, “you cannot say I was an easy opponent.”

“I do not think anything about this could be said to be easy.” Auguste is bent over, leaning on the sword now planted into the ground, and an arm bracing his stomach as he’s unable to stop his mirth from spilling over in a near hysterical fashion.

“On that we can agree.” Damianos offers his arm out, and Auguste clasps it.

Auguste is finally gaining control of himself, but a grin sits firmly on his face. He looks more comfortable around this foreigner than most people Laurent has ever seen his brother with and it leaves his hair standing on end. Auguste’s eyes land on Laurent, watching from the seats above, and waves an arm.

“What do you say, Laurent?” He calls up. “Have you seen enough to decide which of us is better, or must we go a few more rounds and keep tally?”

He is trying to ease Laurent in, he can tell. He is trying to make this easier, for the relations between their countries. Laurent fights back a grimace at the thought, and the one of them starting again.

He hadn’t even seen them fight this time, had barely caught a glimpse at the end of Marlas’. Laurent doesn’t think his feet will ever feel quite solid on the ground until he can say he himself is the best of the three of them. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he has to sit through more of their sparring sessions. Doesn’t want to feel the air being stolen from him again at the thought of Auguste losing.

Laurent stands, schooling every muscle in his body into the cold indifference he has begun to favor around those whose eyes linger a bit too long, tilts his head to the side consideringly, and then walks out without another word, leaving the two older boys to do what they will. If he has to pretend he doesn’t replay Marlas in his head the entire walk back to his room, no one would be able to tell anyways.

~0~

The banquet is winding down but it is already the early hours of the morning and Damianos seems like he’s flagging. Laurent had watched silently from the other side of Auguste as the night had past, as the foreign prince had been presented to the court, as the lords and ladies fawned and fascinated themselves with his exoticism and, though they had the sense not to say it to his face, barbarism.

He seemed pleasant enough company, if their reactions were anything to go by, but Laurent sticks resolutely to his corner, and avoids the gaze of the older man.

“Laurent.” Aldéric leans imposingly against the pillar that Laurent has been using as a cover for the past few minutes. Laurent tries to copy the tilt of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. His uncle is the epitome of effortless presence, with his dark hair and broad body. Laurent will never be him. He knows already he will always be fair and lithe and  _ pretty _ as so many have named him. He wants to be Aldéric, though. He wants to walk into a room someday and have everyone’s spines to straighten as habit, for their eyes to be held, but not as on a pretty gem they’re coveting. The court’s’ eyes follow his uncle as he moves like a mouse watches a cat; anticipatory and the slightest bit frightened. Laurent will never be his uncle, but he knows he can have that, and maybe if he holds himself a bit more like the man, it will help it along. Laurent will make everyone look so that they must listen, someday. “Laurent.”

“Yes, Uncle?” Laurent recovers himself and cranes his neck up.

“It’s not becoming of a prince to lurk around the edges of a party.”

“I’m not l-”

“Laurent.”

“Auguste is the one in charge of the treaty.” Laurent scowls. “In fact, he’s in charge of everything. There’s no need for me to speak a single word to Damianos. Our relations will do just fine without me.”

“Necessity is a very subjective thing.” Aldéric did not look at Laurent. His eyes scanned the room slowly, and if he were looking for anything in particular, Laurent couldn’t tell. “Why don’t you wish to talk to him? Is it the past?”

Laurent said nothing.   
“If so, it is a foolish reason. You are no child, Laurent. No, I don’t think that is it.” Aldéric’s voice is soft, the way it always is when teaching Laurent a lesson. “You don’t trust him, I think. You think he might yet be an enemy.”

If Laurent were honest, he is not quite sure why he is avoiding Damianos other than inane grudges about a war several years finished that he is here to officially mark the end of. Laurent is not sure why he cannot think of Damianos as an ally or friend, and his uncle’s reason seems a good one as any.

“Perhaps.”

“It is not unwise of you to think so.” Aldéric’s words make something like pride swell in Laurent’s chest. “But it is still foolish of you not to seek him out.”

The seed of warmth in his chest is smothered.

“Laurent, do you recall a story told to you as a child? Gregoire and Mathieu?”

Laurent does. He has not heard it since he was a boy, but it had struck him when he was young as a particularly sad tale about two lovers who ended up on opposite sides of a war, and chose to die rather than kill the other. His parents had spoken of love, and how it transcended boundaries and life itself. Laurent had not believed in anything like that in a long time anf did not see how it applied here regardless.

“If that man is to be any ally or friend of yours,” Laurent’s uncle says, “it is of use to you to speak with him at some point so that it may happen as it will.”

Laurent does not favor this lesson.

“ _ And _ ,” Aldéric continues, seeing the near-invisible shift in Laurent’s expression, or perhaps just knowing his nephew very well. “If you are to be enemies at any point, there is no greater weapon to wield than someone’s affection for you. In which case, it also behooves you to deign to say a few words to him now and then.”

Laurent feels frozen to the ground. Is that what he needs to do? Is this what he wants? For Damianos to feel close to him so he can use it later as he needs?

“Do whatever it is you deem  _ necessary _ , Laurent.” His uncle says, and then moves with an open smile into the crowd, ready to seemingly do just that.

Damianos’ head appears above the crowd, towering as he is in height. His eyes are alight with humor and alcohol, and as he swivels around, his gaze locks with Laurent. Damianos smiles at him, and Laurent feels like he is made of ice. Whatever is necessary, Laurent does not think he will be able to make himself do it tonight. As the light of the sun hints itself at the horizon and the party continues on, Laurent sneaks into the hallway and up to his room. It has been a long night, and his head has barely touched the pillow before he is dreaming swords.

~0~

Laurent is in the library, enjoying the quiet that comes after a banquet, as most of those who drank in excess are not yet awake making a disruption of themselves. Damianos, apparently, is one of the people who can both drink in excess, and be awake fairly soon after, and go about making a disruption of himself. Laurent had not yet decided how to approach the Akielon prince, when the man in question solves the problem by brushing softly into Laurent’s favorite library.

“I was told I might find you in here.”

“Were you?” Laurent does not look up from his book. He runs his uncle’s words through his head.

“Well,” Damianos actually sounds hesitant. “I was told at some point that you like to be in here, but if I am quite honest, I got lost in the halls and this is the first door I’ve opened with anything that I recognize.”

Now is a good a time as any. Laurent looks up to see Damianos rubbing at the back of his neck like a child caught stealing food from the kitchens, and a barely visible red tinge to his skin. Laurent should not find these facts nearly as interesting as he does.

“You managed to get lost?” It is an idiotic thing. Laurent  _ should _ hate the fact that this man has managed to do something so moronic, but as he feared with Auguste in the days before Damianos arrived, it seemed nothing with him is easy. “Aren’t there guards approximately everywhere that could lead you where you want to go?”

“I suppose.” Now he looks like a child caught out in a lie. “But I had dismissed most of them for the time being. It’s not often we’re Arles, I would like to do it on my own terms. And I believe the most of them are off bringing new business to your marketplaces.”

Laurent can’t do anything but stare incredulously at the man before him. Damen suddenly looks worried.

“I can’t think of any customs I could’ve defied with that, but if I have done something wrong, I will work immediately to rectify it.”

“The only custom you’ve defied,” Laurent cannot believe the man before him. “Is the one of not being completely foolish. You come to the capital of a foreign land that up until recently you had been at war with and the first thing you do is dismiss your guards?“

Laurent does not think his uncle has any reason to worry about this Akielon royal afterall.

“It was a goodwill gesture, mainly.” Damianos replies easily. “I want you and your family to know that I fully believe in this peace between us.”

“We are not the only danger here, Damianos.” Laurent is five years younger than this man, and perhaps half his size, and yet he cannot imagine the naivety it would take for such an actions.

“Please, call me Damen.” Says the prince, as if that is the only thing he took away from what Laurent had said. Laurent feels the need to stifle a hysterical giggle. They’d lost a  _ war  _ to this man.

“Why?”

“Because that is what my friends call me.”

Laurent feel again off-balance.

“Is that what you consider me?”

“Perhaps.” He says easily enough. “Or what I hope you and your family will become, at the least.”

“Damen.” Laurent tests the name on his lips. The sound rolls of surprisingly easily and Damen’s eyes light up, so Laurent decides to keep using it.

“Sorry to have interrupted your book, though.”

Laurent looks down at the page he was on and shrugs.

“It was nothing terribly riveting.” he says, closing the cover.

“What is it about?”

“Patran culture and history.” Laurent realizes he should have made something up with about half the words already out of his mouth, and Damen’s jaw clenches, a muscle jumping dangerously.

“It is certainly a colorful subject.” Damen manages civilly enough, though waves of some emotion or another are pouring off of him.

Laurent looks at the man before him, closely for perhaps the first time really, and the brown eyes that were so light last night are glinting sharply. Laurent hadn’t realized until now how much he liked them the other way. Damen, like this, reminds Laurent too much of what he might’ve been if Marlas had gone a different way. Something inside of him cracks.

“Why did you do it?” He asks, and Damen’s head swings around to look him in the eye, equal parts puzzled at the questions and still somewhat crazed from whatever he’s remembering.

“Why’d I do what?” The question is careful and sterile-edged in a way Damen had never been around him before.

“Marlas--at Marlas.” Laurent clarifies. “You should have killed Auguste. You were going to. Or, at least you seemed like you were going to. Anyone else would have in your position and you had every right. Auguste himself probably would have killed you if he’d won like he did when you sparred the other day. I keep thinking about it, I have been for years and I can’t figure it out. Why didn’t you?”

The library is silent. Damen shifts from one foot to the other and Laurent can hear the carpet move beneath his feet.

“If I’m honest Laurent,” Damen sighs and looks out the window beside them. “It was you.”

In Laurent’s nightmares, he is running towards the two figures ahead of him. There is Damianos, prince of Akielos, dark and terrifying, and shining in the sun, standing above his brother, and Laurent can’t get there in time. In his nightmares, he screams and cries and yells and runs, but Damianos still brings down the sword and the grounds of Marlas turn the red of Akielon banners. In his nightmares, Laurent doesn’t make it in time to save Auguste, but in real life, apparently he did, and he doesn’t understand.

“ _ What? _ ” Laurent chokes. “What do you mean?”

“You, Laurent.” With Laurent still sitting in his chair, Damen squats down to look Laurent in the eye. “You were running towards us and screaming. You were scared and nearly crying.”

Laurent does not want or need to be reminded of any of this. He especially does not want or need to know that Damen remembers it all as well.

“You had someone grab me and take me away when I got too close.” Laurent recalls. “I thought you killed him then.”

“I know,” Damen says with a wry grin, obviously thinking of later that day. “But before that, I was there with a choice to make, and you were there watching.”

“Why does that matter?” Laurent says. “You didn’t know me.”

“But I did know who you were, and who you were to Auguste.” Damen fixes his eyes on the floor for a moment, before meeting Laurent’s gaze again. “It is a terrible thing, Laurent, to watch a brother die. I could not be that for another person, no matter their land or their war.”

Laurent, after years of agonizing over those few moments of running towards two people in the distance, looks at Damen’s earnest eyes and understands.

~0~

It is their seventh game of chess in two weeks. Laurent has won four, and Damen had won a respectable and surprising three. Laurent is seething, and not over chess.

“The Patran delegation extends their greetings to you.” Laurent hopes and prays he will take the bait.

“I am aware.” Damen, non-plussed, moves a pawn.

“They arrive in the morning.” Laurent slides his rook to the side.

“I am aware.” Damen repeats, gripping his queen a bit too hard.

“How you ever generalled forces with strategic thinking this lacking, I will never know.” Laurents snips, as he moves to take one of Damen’s bishops.

“No, I don’t suppose you will.” Damen’s calm would be well-placed any other time, but now it just serves to worsen Laurent’s mood.

Laurent huffs.

“I don’t suppose you have ever fought in a real war, Laurent? Or an actual battle?” Damen does not say it unkindly as he moves his knight. Laurent’s blood feels like it is boiling beneath his skin. Damen still does not have his guards posted, and Laurent has seen him walk oblivious through Arles as eyes rove over him with curiosity or hostility.

This hulking animal of a man before him does not think through his words, does not consider his actions, moves about like the walls of Arles are not the most dangerous battlefield he has ever walked. Laurent supposes Damianos has never waged war without swords and strength. He has not needed to. It is a state of mind that Laurent both envies and pities.

“Not in any way that you’d be familiar with.” He replies delicately. “I don’t suppose you have ever lost one.”

It is not a question, and Damen laughs softly. He does not know what Laurent means by this, the prince of Vere can tell. Laurent has lost many things in life so far, only a few of those being games that he had no stake in but pride. By losing he’d learned just how much he could sacrifice before it was too much, and the remains folded in. Only by losing could Laurent ensure that he would not again.

“Not that I can remember.” Damianos does not say it as a brag, just as fact. “But I get the impression that if I were truly pitted against you, I would find myself becoming acquainted with failure.”

The dark man, seated across from him, is as transparent as the finest Veretian glass, and probably, Laurent thinks, just as susceptible to shattering apart. He does not get nearly as much satisfaction in this thought as he might have several weeks ago.

“Let us hope it is not so.” Laurent says softly.

~0~

Laurent and Damen spend nearly the entire next day in the forest on horseback, so when they trot back towards Arles, the decent sized travel party getting ready to depart is a surprise.

“What’s going on?” Laurent demand with as authoritative a voice as he can manage to the nearest guard.

“Your Highness, your brother is to go to Patras for emergency diplomatic action. I’m sorry, that is all I know.”

Laurent swung his horse around to face Damen, whose face has drained of all blood.

“Patras?” He asks hoarsely. “Why? Is it to do with the truce with Akielos?”

“I don’t know.” Laurent huffs, frustrated. He turns back to the guard. “Where is my brother now?”

“I believe he left immediately with a small party.” He says with a grimace. “We are to follow as soon as possible, but the men are still packing up supplies that we’ll all need for the trip.”

“He already left?” Laurent’s stomach drops, and he takes off at a gallop for the stables, Damen right behind. “I have to find my uncle. He’ll know what’s going on.”

Aldéric is waiting there for him, so he must’ve had the same idea. His uncle eyes Damen warily, but Laurent doesn’t have the patience for caution right now, with his brother already gone.

“What happened?” He’s pleading for something, anything, and he know’s it’s unbecoming of royalty and he’s sure he’ll get a lecture for it later, but Auguste is all he has left. Auguste is all he has.

“The delegation from Patras obviously came without warning,” Aldéric does not look happy about this fact, “But it worsened. During their meeting with your brother today they gave him a message from King Torgeir. Something happened along the main trading pass in the mountains.”

“What? Raiders?”

“It must have been something worse, but we don’t know exactly what. All we know is that Torgeir required your brother’s immediate presence or we’d be in danger of yet another war.”

Laurent freezes as that sinks in.

“But-” He protests, “But he’ll be taking the quickest route there, then, right? And that’s-”

“The mountain pass that something terrible has happened to.” Damen finishes gravely.

“Your brother will be fine, Laurent.” His uncle soothes. “Now we just need to focus on saving face and keeping their delegation happy.” He looks up at Damen. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

Laurent looks for the first time during the conversation, and Damen’s fists are clenched. His spine is straight and his muscles are tensed and he looks as if he might burst any moment. He thinks back on their first conversation in the library weeks ago.

“I am here,” Damen says tightly, “to improve my country’s relationship with Vere. I wish you peace. I will help with that in any way I can.”

“Good.” Aldéric nods. “We’ll need all we can. From the sounds of it, one misstep at this point could be disastrous for us all.”

**Laurent looks at his uncle’s cold eyes and Damen’s furrowed brow, and thinks of his brother racing towards the border, and he couldn’t agree more. **


End file.
